Where the Dead Go
by Raven-Shinigami
Summary: Another dark fic. America dies, and goes to the place where dead countries go (assuming they commit suicide). However, he escapes and returns to the physical world, only to find that he nobody can see him-he has become a spiritual entity. Fortunately for him, England can see spirits. But how will America deal with death and the trauma he's been through? AU. Warning: feels. Lots.


**Hello people, I'm back. Sorry about the short hiatus- I needed a break.**

**I'm sorry that I keep torturing America and England, but... that's how much I love them. I just love them so much, that I have to write all the awesome stories and make them about those two. And by "all the awesome stories," I mean "all my sad, feels-inducing stories that are the only good types I can write."**

**They do not belong to me. Hetalia, America, England, all that. I'm sorry.**

**And the image-I found it on deviantART, but the link to it has stopped working since then. So... I don't know how to give credit for that.**

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_The darkness was stifling. However, that did not mean nobody was there. Deep in the labyrinth of black halls and red rooms was a room of monochrome. There, in a chair of purest white sat a robed and hooded figure. On the floor was America, sitting propped up against a wall, eyes and lips sewn shut. After all, if there wasn't any light, what need did he have of sight?_

_The hooded figure leaned down closer to America, poison dripping from their mouth. Words—so many painful words were uttered into the helpless country's ear. For emotional pain is sometimes far more crippling than any physical wound. Months and months had passed by since America had awoken in the pitch black room. All that time, he had endured torture like none he'd ever known before. He'd been subjected to beatings that lasted for a seemingly endless time. The marks from those beatings lasted even longer. America had long ago stopped questioning how a non-country could hurt him the way he'd been harmed an innumerable amount of times since his arrival wherever he was. But that wasn't the worst part, oh no. The very worst bit was when he was spoken to. When that cloaked being glided in, the terrible works spoken invaded America's mind, never giving him any peace. He knew he couldn't trust what the mysterious person said, but America wasn't really sure of anything these days._

_At first, he'd consoled himself with the thought of his fellow countries coming to his rescue. As time had worn on, however, his faith in them had started to fade. Now, even his very life prior to the dark room was in question. Had he ever really had friends? Had he ever really seen light or happiness? Had he himself ever been happy? But whatever he was, he was not a hero. He was just… some person. Nobody special. Certainly, he could not have been a country, could he have been? All America knew for retain was the fact that he was alive. That was the extent of his knowledge of self. His personality, sight, and speech had all been torn away from him—stolen away. So had his sense of smell and feelings of happiness, hope, comfort… and the want for life._

_America didn't feel as though he even existed anymore. After all, wasn't he just the empty shell of a person he wasn't? Not only that, but recently, he'd been receiving news of goings-on in the outside world from his captor. It was bleak, with the world currently engulfed in the flames of WWIII. So now, even if he _was_ eventually set free, he'd have nowhere to go back to; he had no life to look forward to. Living in a post-apocalyptic world without his sight? America would rather stay put. At least he got fed regularly, and had all essentials provided for him._

Tch,_ he thought._ People are so stupid. Why'd they have to go and start WWIII? There're probably nuclear missiles flying left and right.

_Sighing quietly, he let the mysterious person's words slide off of him as he tried to sleep. Unfortunately, this option was taken away from him as soon as a pistol was shoved into his right hand. A sharp intake of breath let the cloaked person know that America was awake and, now, attentive._

_"Do you know what that's for, America?" asked the one sitting on the white chair. "I bet you do."_

_America remained silent._

_"Come now. Don't play dumb; we've played these yes or no games before. One tap for yes, two for no. It's not that hard, really."_

_Tentatively, America tapped on the floor twice, pretty sure he knew how this little encounter would go, and how it would probably end._

_"Good," said the cloaked figure, a smile evident in their voice. "Now, here's how this is going to work. There is one shot loaded into that pistol. You can either take a potshot at me or shoot yourself to escape these miserable conditions. If you shoot at me, I assure you, you shall not be punished. You're playing my game, after all."_

_America leveled the gun at the cloaked figure's head._

_"Tsk, tsp, America. You have to wait for me to tell you what I was planning on saying before you make your decision."_

_The tension in the room was palpable. After a pregnant silence, America heard the other person take a breath, as though to speak. Several seconds later, the cloaked figure spoke again._

_"England is dead. And I killed him."_

_America let out an anguished cry as he pulled the trigger._

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England stared incredulously at the front page of the newspaper. He didn't trust his eyes. America couldn't be dead. It just wasn't possible. As for the rest of the story, England was slightly skeptical as to how a non-country had been able to harm a country. It simply defied all logic.

But probably the most disturbing information from the article was that it appeared that America had committed suicide. It would have taken much more that what the scars on his body had hinted at. Could his captor have played mind games with America, toyed with the country until not a single ounce of fight was left? Whatever the case, America was gone. He'd been broken.

England knew he should probably start organizing the funeral, and yet… And yet, he could not bring himself to do so at that moment. The news of America's death was still sinking in. Although the beginnings of numbness _were_ creeping around the edges of it.

But he owed it to America to know what had happened, so he forced himself to continue reading. His horror kept growing as he progressed through the article. But the bit that really just tore him up inside were the words found on a scrap piece of paper in America's pocket. Although the stitches sewing his eyes and mouth shut were gut-wrenching, the short message was just so, so… awful. The message was written in blood, and said: _I'm not… not the hero. I never was, and I don't know why I ever thought I could be. I am nobody special. I should not be alive._

"You _are_ a hero, America," England whispered quietly between sobs. "I only wish I'd been able to tell you. I only wish… we had let you know before… before… before" England found that he couldn't finish the sentence, and ended up trailing off as a fresh wave of sobs racked his body.

He would bring back America if he could. Unfortunately, his magic wasn't strong enough to achieve such a thing. All that was left for him to do was to wait. Wait, and hope for a miracle—something impossible—to happen.

England could not bring himself to leave his room for quite some time. After all, his little brother—for that was what America would always be to him—was gone. And not just the way it had been after the Revolution. This time, he was gone.

Gone for good.

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**For those of you who noticed how America's eyes were stitched shut but he was still able to level the gun at the cloaked guy's head, you're right-that is weird. But America was just following the sound of the person's voice. Simple.**

**Moving on, how many of you really, really hate me for all my dark stuff?**

**Okay.**

**How many of you got too many feels to deal with?**

***raises hand* I'll admit, I got feels from writing this.**

**Also, sorry people, but I'm going back on hiatus for a while. I've got to 1) work on some funny stuff to lift your moods (and dark stuff to drag you all back down again, kukukukukukuku). That, and Rae-Rae has gotten back in the ****_drawing mood_****. That's right, people, Rae-Rae ****_draws_****. And will come back from deviantART once she has achieved all she set out to do once her drawing mindset set in.**

**So, see you all in, oh I don't know, a couple of weeks from now. Sound good? Good.**


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